


more and more drastic

by Keturagh



Series: False Fruit [20]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Caning, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, F/M, Semi-Public Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:47:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22045855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keturagh/pseuds/Keturagh
Summary: She shivered.She pressed her mouth to the witherstalk.He pushed the wood up between her lips.She accepted the cane between her teeth with a tremble that made her whole body contract and writhe.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Fen'Harel/Female Lavellan, Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age)
Series: False Fruit [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1579504
Kudos: 14





	more and more drastic

**fluid melodic / getting more and more drastic / the moment she gives in to him / she regrets it / a throat a chest / trying to press themselves (All the Flourishes in the World, Dale Going)**

\--

It was something he had whispered to her three days prior, the promise delivered as they left the watering hole with full flasks. Dragonthorn scraped against their shins as they waded knee-deep through the brush.

Pangara had stopped walking.

He’d continued on and heard her moan, abrupt and choked, behind him. He’d ducked his gaze back to spy her posture. Weakened and yearning. He’d covered his movement by wiping the top of his head dry of sweat on his sleeve. The heat like scales had been burning against their bodies for days. Comparatively, traveling along the base of the canyon was sweet respite. An abundance of shade, except at midday. And the wind, still strong and carrying the blaze of sun through their clothes, was at least less apt to slam up a mouthful of sand at any unwary moment.

Now, as she arched up against him in the cold, too cold, desert night and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and as he buried a hand up her shirt and palmed her breast’s soft give, gliding her nipple under his thumb as she kissed him, desperate, Solas struggled to reclaim the smooth control of that moment.

What was it, exactly, she had said?

“ _Come_ —”

No.

He disciplined his mind.

Before.

On their way down the ladder into the canyon. What she had said under her breath, a vocal habit in direct violation of the rules he had structured for her regarding such language:

“Don’t catch me if I fall,” she’d said.

”Do you remember what you said?” he asked.

”Yes.”

”Are you prepared to accept your punishment?”

”Yes.”

He gave her a gentle kiss, tasting of her swollen mouth with just the tip of his tongue. And then he pulled away. Pangara stiffened and stared up at him in a way that assured him that she remembered the moment by the water and the punishment he had promised her for her self-loathing language. Three night’s time, he’d warned her. Now, having sat her before him on the edge of a wagon outside of the encampment, he folded his right hand up behind the small of his back and grasped his left wrist, straightening his shoulders down and back. He waited.

A steely moment hung between them. He watched her eyes reflect the green glow of the veilfire. The light jumped in the lantern and cast fitfully over the charred wreck of the wagon. It was a sickle-moon night; the darkness afforded them some measure of privacy from the eyes back at the encampment, but necessity kept them near. The scouts on guard had looked carefully away as he had lead her from the ring of tents.

Finally she asked, “What night is it, Papae?” And she twisted her voice up, coy.

“It is the third night,” he said.

How the red raised under her cheeks. How her nipples shaped under the fabric of her nightclothes. How she caressed the nail of her thumb up and down her pointer finger. He categorized these signatures of her desire.

“And Papae, what was it you said…?”

“Six strikes, _ma’malfenasha_. Did you understand my meaning?”

She tried to hide her shudder from him. She squared her shoulders as she adjusted her seat and the wooden wheels groaned. He brought one hand around and soothed his fingers on her ear, across her cheek, and down her chin. After a moment, when she did not answer, he tilted his head and opened his mouth, and she rushed to speak before him.

“Yes, I understood.” She turned her head and gently bit the notch of his wrist.

He tapped her throat and she released him.

“We do not speak that way, vhenan,” he had murmured, enunciating each word as he’d brought his lips to her ear. And then he had delivered the promise. Three nights. Six strikes.

And the past three days of travel had been a growing madness between them. The distance he kept from her was designed to be just as cruel as the punishment promised. Her tension had made her angry at first. She’d held it like a cyclone in battle. Avoided standing near him. Would not meet his eyes.

Then on the second day, her anticipation urged her near him. He had enjoyed this but had dismissed her even so. She had plied him with rash obscenities. Tried to draw his touch, his attention — most likely, his ire. _“Slam your length through me; come in me so hard I forget my own name.” “Won’t you spread your spend between my breasts?” “Fill me with root and make me walk beside you, wet and throbbing for release.”_

He could admit that there had been… temptation. Even now, he felt his heart beat faster recalling the lull of her voice, the way she’d dipped her body in such subtle and enticing ways when she knew he chanced to look her way. And had it not been only when she had slunk onto his lap, as he sat sharpening the blade of his staff, that he had put an end to the behavior? Had needed to put an end to it, before he lost control. Abstaining from her with icy and distant amusement, her cockiness had been replaced with frustration, then wanton pleading, until she had gone from him entirely.

Then all today, she had been consumed by whip-thin anxiety.

When she had finally looked close to snapping — foot tapping, knee bouncing, fingers steepled together and pressed to her lips as she stared mindlessly at the bonfire flames — Solas had decided to offer her some small release. His hand, for her to take. She had submitted and followed at once. She had walked behind him silently into the dark, fingers tight around his. She had allowed him to lift her onto the edge of the wagon and had welcomed his kiss, his embrace, with a desperate, grateful whine.

“Undress.” He said, softly.

Pangara took care with each button. Edged the nightcoat from her shoulders. Her breasts perked in the cool night, veilfire shadows moving on their curves. “May I stand?” She asked, and after receiving his permission she elected to remove her breeches by first turning so that her backside faced him.

“Bend,” he instructed, unable to keep a note of anticipation from his tone.

He saw the clenching of her fists, and after all the ways in which she had vexed him — for she _had_ vexed him, more than he’d wanted to allow himself to acknowledge — he did not have the patience for this fight.

He closed the distance between them and gripped the back of her neck. “Bend,” he said again, calmly guiding her down. Her strength resisted him. Yet he prevailed on her to adopt the requested pose, and after he stepped back and appreciated the curve of her, he turned away, saying as he lifted the cane from the wagon bed, “Repetition. Seven.” He heard her curse under her breath and was glad she could not see the quirk of his lips.

She indulged him in what he desired so greatly: move her, control her, make demands of her he might — her spirit would fight. Would resist and thrash against the collar.

But what he did for her now was an extension of the agreements they had made. She waited for him, bent over, her eyes drifting closed as she fell into a space where she knew he would carry her.

“Your pain will not bring me satisfaction, _ma’malfenasha_ ,” he said. “I regret the necessity.”

He studied the length of witherstalk he’d chosen that morning. He had stripped it and left to dry in the midday heat. It was still fresh enough to be supple, but would carry good resistance through the rod.

Some things and never changing, the uses of witherstalk among them.

He walked alongside her. Examined her stance. He watched her shiver when he ghosted a touch down her spine — watched her lean and moan as he gently pinched and rubbed the curve of her ass. Then he reached and placed the cane under her lips.

And, when he glanced over to see her throwing a look back at him that was every part lust and defiance, he casually dipped his fingers between the folds of her cleft tucked up so nicely by her bend. Her indignation fell away; she tried to rock back against his fingers — but he kept them poised at her entrance, and the cane under her lips.

She shivered.

She pressed her mouth to the witherstalk.

He pushed the wood up between her lips.

She accepted the cane between her teeth with a tremble that made her whole body contract and writhe.

Solas snapped his fingers. Her gaze shot back to him, her eyes hot with humiliation. And he maintained eye contact — forced her to watch him roll up the sleeve of the arm poised over her cunt. He twitched his fingers and smiled gently as she responded with a whimper. Then, just as the flush in her cheeks started to spread down to her neck, he pulled his hand away.

She protested, wanton pleas muffled by the cane clamped in her jaw.

He took the gloves out of his pocket and pulled them on — the left, then the right — with care.

She bent her knees, moving more of her weight onto her arms. The Anchor cast its small, eerie light from beneath her palm. She did not look away. Still twisted with her chin resting over her shoulder, the cane wide out of either side of her mouth, bent at the waist, she was a woman of exquisitely broken symmetries. He wanted to plunge within her. The tension in the space that separated their bodies was heavy with delay, temptation. The phantom light revealed the way her pupils dilated. How her eyes tracked his fingers as he made fastidious adjustments to his gloves.

He extended a hand and gestured for the cane.

She dipped her head and dropped the length into his palm.

And then he was tapping the rod upon her backside, once, twice, and then widening his stance and torquing his shoulder back and then, over the whistle-crack of stalk against her ass, instructing her: “Count.”

“One,” she gasped.

Two. Three.

He disappeared into the lissome blow of the wood upon her flesh, each calculated sink a song in the night.

“Four,” with a moan.

“Breathe,” he reminded her.

Five.

He paused. Allowed the vicious tongues of pain to buzz beneath her skin.

“How many remain, vhenan?”

The way she fought to think, to respond beyond the simple task of making the count of blows, told him that her mind had plummeted to its depths. Her tongue sounding too-large, she said finally, “Two.”

“And it would be one more, only.”

“I made you repeat yourself,” she groaned, and when she shifted her hips back as if to beg for further ministrations, he felt the weakness of his own desire gripping warm and harmful in his gut.

“Breathe,” he said again, refusing to adjust himself. His erection pressed at an uncomfortable angle to his thigh, and it was… suddenly more difficult to silence his thoughts as he prepared to finish the caning. But he mastered his control as she breathed out. And his whole body spun into the blow. And he jerked into the clarity of mind which let him see and judge and place the hit. And the hit was good, and she made a small, longing noise.

Six.

He paused again before the final blow.

Caressing her reddened flesh, he savored this ease, this strength within him — fully attuned to her need, the singular purpose of the power she afforded him resonated in his spirit. He was freed from the familiar weights of guilt and uncertainty as surely as if he stood within the Fade.

She released him.

“Seven.” Her voice was thick, her wetness dewing on her thigh.

He tossed the cane into the night. He stroked her ass, patting it gently, then moved his hand up her spine and rubbed over her shoulders. He hovered first one hand, then the other under her chin. She pulled his gloves off with her teeth and when he’d tucked them away he straightened her posture. He turned her and held her close to his chest.

Pulling the embrace close, and closer still, they clung to one another.

And then she pulled away.

Her touch fluttered against the stiffness still constrained along his thigh. She adjusted him, gently, through his breeches, and he struggled to hide his relief. She snickered as she buried her head against his chest, and with the syrupy laze of satisfaction drifting between them, she repeated in whispers all the appeals she’d made of him before. And then she murmured new challenges, each more obscene than the last, that in short time had him grappling against her and closing his mouth over hers, and stripping, impatiently, out of everything that separated them.


End file.
